


Jardani

by RelentlessBard



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - John Wick (Movies) Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gang Violence, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Love, New York City, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Canon, Pre-John Wick (2014), Russian Mafia, Slow Burn, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2020-12-20 17:44:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21060659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RelentlessBard/pseuds/RelentlessBard
Summary: This work takes place in a (so far) largely Canon-compliant universe, at the time when Jardani Jovonovich (John Wick) first joins a unit of the Tarasov Russian mafia in New York City. It is post-Ruska Roma, post-Marine Corps, but pre-Helen and long before the John Wick films.As the timeline of John Wick's former life is not specified in the films, I've chosen to imagine he left the Ruska Roma soon after reaching adulthood, spent much of his 20s in the Marines, then left the armed forces and had a brief period living on the streets before Viggo Tarasov came across him in a bar.Viggo and the other film characters will not be featured much in this work. In this version, Jardani is first initiated into a different branch of the Tarasovs, not the main unit. I have assumed that he moves into closer contact with Viggo et al after this story takes place.This work will instead focus on Jardani's relationship with an original character, Elena - a young tattoo artist working for the Tarasovs.If you like having a clear visual of the character, I'm imagining Jardani at this age looks like Keanu in the first Matrix film, as he appears in the Nebuchadnezzar, not the computer simulations.





	1. A New Initiate

**Author's Note:**

> The Russian mafia, sometimes referred to as Bratva (brotherhood), is a collective of various organized crime elements originating in the former Soviet Union.   
Pakhan: (Boss) controls four criminal cells in the working unit through an intermediary called a Brigadier.  
Avtoritet: (Authority) is like a captain in charge of a small group of men. He gives out jobs to Boyeviks (warriors) and pays tribute to Pakhan.  
Bratok: works for a Brigadier having a special criminal activity to run, similar to soldiers in Italian-American Mafia crime families and Sicilian Mafia clans.   
Shestyorka: is an errand boy for the organisation and is the lowest rank in the Russian Mafia. 
> 
> (Note: This is all lifted from Wikipedia so I can't confirm its accuracy. Good enough for my purposes though!)

ELENA

I made the finishing touches to the new boyevik’s tattoo, wiping off a few spots of blood and stepping back to admire my work. The Eastern Orthodox cross was somewhat ironic, I supposed, given what these boys were signing up for, but Daniil insisted on all the new recruits being marked this way. He was deep in the Church, in ways I didn’t want to know about, and fancied himself to be some kind of dark angel meting out justice. Initially I found the whole thing sort of hot, but his power tripping goth act had long since grown old. Still, it was much better to be the girlfriend of an avtoritet than to have every member of the Bratva hitting on me nonstop.

I led the new kid back out to get Daniil’s approval of my work. He nodded and sent the boyevik off for the final phase of initiation. I deliberately avoided knowing what else these boys had to do to be fully part of the Bratva. I was quite happy to stick to simple, functional tasks to justify my presence here: haircuts, tattoos, patching up non-complex injuries to the best of my ability. (We only called in proper medical help for serious cases). The rest of what went on fell outside my duties and largely outside my knowledge, and I was careful to keep it that way. I knew what we were but ultimately I wanted no part of it. I had no stomach for violence, even when it was inflicted on the worst examples of humanity. And there were plenty of those to be found in New York City.

Daniil impatiently motioned me back to his side, and I took my place near the makeshift fighting ring as the next initiate was called in. I hated this part of the process: pitting young hopefuls against more experienced Tarasov fighters; inevitably leading to me stitching up split faces and binding broken bones which would never heal properly with the inexpert attention I could give them. No matter how many times I saw this unfold, I couldn’t seem to get used to the sound of flesh thudding against flesh, the sharp snapping of bones. Even the smell in the dingy room dredged up a rolling sensation of nausea. But I sat silently beside Daniil and tried to focus only on steadying my breathing.

The next initiate was led across the bloodstained floor, his blindfold removed by one of the shestyorka. He blinked and looked around calmly as he was directed towards the ring. The young man ducked under the tattered rope and stood up to meet Daniil’s eyes without any of the usual shows of machismo. My gaze flicked between him and my boyfriend as Daniil eyed him back, keeping silent more than long enough to make any typical kid nervous. This one barely blinked.

As the silence stretched on, I grew fascinated by his quiet confidence. He looked older than the usual initiates - probably in his late 20s - and with a seeming maturity beyond his years. His clothes were worn, and he was clearly in need of a good meal, his jaw jutting out sharply enough to cut paper. His dark hair was barely more than a shadow on his scalp, I could see tattoos poking out from his ripped shirt, and a number of significant scars marred his otherwise smooth skin. Yet for all that, he was luminous - objectively beautiful in a way that even these men would notice.

He was muscular but lithe, with long legs and and a slender torso that seemed to suggest ‘dancer’ at first glance. His deep brown eyes belied a sensitivity and intelligence that had me wondering. Maybe he had managed to offend one of the city’s other elite crime families, and needed to go underground. But with a face and a body like that, he could have easily found himself a powerful benefactor. Male or female, whichever he preferred. Though perhaps the idea of selling his body for protection did not appeal to him. I could understand that. Still...

“What’s your name?” Daniil barked suddenly, breaking the silence and interrupting my train of thought.  
“Jardani Jovonovich,” the man replied quietly.  
“And you can fight, Jardani Jovonovich?”  
“I do not fight. I complete the task that is given to me.”  
Daniil raised an eyebrow.  
“Alright. Your first task today will be to disarm one of our boyeviks. You will not be armed, but you may use whatever tactics you wish. You will not leave the ring until you are successful, unconscious, or you ask to stop. If you ask to stop, your trial ends. You will never be invited back. Do you understand?”  
Jardani paused for the barest moment, his eyes darting around the room and coming to rest on me for a heartbeat, before returning to the cold stare of the avtoritet.  
“Yes.”

Daniil smiled, a false smile that stretched his lips thinly over his teeth, and my heart sunk. I knew that look. He nodded to one of the boyeviks standing in the shadows and I bit back a cry as the man entered the ring, knife in hand. Mikalai was an excellent fighter, and certainly one of our most ruthless. Very few men would be able to take him on, let alone unarmed. I wondered if Daniil was irritated by the confidence of this young man, or if he just felt like being cruel, giving a virtually impossible task to a new initiate.  
Daniil must have noticed my reaction because he chuckled at my stunned expression.  
“Don’t worry, Viggo said this guy killed three guys in a bar with nothing but a pencil.”  
My eyes widened at that.  
“Bullshit.”  
“I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”  
Daniil turned back to the ring and gave the order.  
“Begin.”

My gaze locked onto Jardani as though magnetised. He sized up Mikalai, eyeing the blade in his hand and watching carefully as the larger man crossed the ring, taking his time about it. Mikalai was clearly a great deal heavier than Jardani, and with longer reach. He cracked his neck once on either side before making an exploratory jab with the knife. Jardani barely moved, just side-stepped to avoid the blade. Mikalai nodded, lazily circling again before suddenly switching the blade to his other hand as he swung in behind Jardani. Again, the initiate was too quick, dodging out of the way and dancing back a few steps.

Mikalai grinned at that before moving in close, obviously deciding this young man was worth a bit more effort on his part. For several minutes the two dodged and parried and lunged at each other, neither one able to gain the upper hand. I noticed Jardani’s eyes sometimes flicking to the side, presumably scanning the room for concealed or potential weapons, but anything useful had been carefully removed from the vicinity of the ring. Soon Daniil was leaning forward beside me, unable to hide his fascination.

I hadn’t studied martial arts myself but Jardani was clearly skilled in more than one form, and he attempted again and again to disarm Mikalai using an unbelievable variety of approaches. But it was more than just that. He moved with a grace and skill that was beautiful and terrifying in equal measure, and again I was reminded of a dancer. The utter focus in his dark eyes held me spellbound, and I looked around to see that every single person in the room was likewise captivated.

At last the men sprang apart into opposite corners, each breathing hard. Jardani came to rest only a few feet from me, whether by accident or design I don’t know. Up close, I could see blood mixing with his sweat, but only a little. The fact that he was able to keep pace with a skilled, knife-wielding boyevik while himself unarmed was incredible. As yet, Mikalai had inflicted only minor wounds on Jardani. But I knew Daniil would never call the fight early. He liked to say that what the initiates did when desperate was the true indication of their potential.

Desperate is not a word I would apply to Jardani. As he panted softly and appeared to be recovering himself, his pitch black gaze came to rest on me. My heart started pounding, with excitement or fear, and time slowed down as he reached towards me. Somehow in that moment I didn’t care whether it was in embrace or threat - Jardani’s mere proximity was intoxicating. Then with a sudden flick he removed the small tattoo needle I’d laced through my shirt in place of a missing button.

Before Mikalai knew what was happening, Jardani was back across the ring, ducking in dangerously close to jab the needle upwards into the bigger man's eye. Despite the shock, Mikalai didn’t lose his grip on the knife, and he swept it across Jardani’s abdomen in a wild attempt to regain control. A thin line of red appeared through the slice in the young man’s shirt, but he caught Mikalai’s wrist on the upswing and twisted it sharply with a loud pop. Gasping in pain, Mikalai released the knife and fell to his knees, unarmed and humiliated.

He moved so fast that I had barely registered what happened when Daniil rose to his feet.  
“Stop,” he ordered, but Jardani had already stepped to the side. His attack had been precise and functional. Clearly he took no joy from inflicting pain, unlike many others in the room.

“You have blinded one of my best boyeviks,” Daniil stated. I could hear him trying to hide his astonishment.  
“He should recover if he is treated quickly,” Jardani corrected him quietly. “The wound is not deep.”  
“Oh don’t worry,” Daniil laughed, “I’m impressed.”  
He motioned for one of the shestyorka to remove Mikalai from the room.  
“Elena will see to him.”  
My mouth dropped open.  
“Daniil, I can’t treat an eye puncture,” I protested in shock.  
“Well you should have thought of that before bringing illicit weapons into my arena,” he hissed, turning towards me with a cold stare. I swallowed hard. I would pay for that mistake later.

“Avtoritet, please,” Mikalai groaned, “I will be no use to you with only one working eye.”  
Daniil sighed and waved at the young shestyorka again. “Fine, call the surgeon. Honestly, so much trouble over an eye.”  
Daniil turned to me again, and my blood ran cold at the disdain swimming in his expression.  
“Do you think you can handle the new boyevik’s tattoo, or is that too much for you as well?”  
I swallowed and nodded. When he was in this mood it was best not to reply.  
As I motioned for Jardani to follow me, I swear I saw a wave of empathy flood his face for a moment, but it was replaced so quickly with an unreadable blank stare that I wondered if I had imagined it.


	2. A Cross and a Prayer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dziakuj – “thank you” in Belarusian  
Niama za što – reply to thank you

ELENA

The door swung shut behind us and I covered my face with my hands for a second.  
“Are you alright?” Jardani asked softly from behind me, and I dropped my hands to my sides.  
“Yes of course,” I stammered. What was wrong with me? It was incredibly unwise to show weakness in front of a stranger, not to mention a newly-minted Tarasov. I tried to shake off the foreboding I felt at Daniil’s coldness, and focus instead on our newest boyevik.

“Are _you_ alright? How’s your stomach?” I asked, dreading the thought of having to deal with a serious abdominal injury.  
“Don’t worry, it’s nothing,” he assured me, lifting up his torn shirt in proof that Mikalai’s knife had barely grazed his belly. There was another scar there, an older one, stretching upward from Jardani’s navel. It looked as though he’d had seriously invasive surgery at one point.

“Any other injuries that need attention?” I asked, wanting to be sure.  
“Nothing to worry about,” Jardani assured me, with a gentle expression that was baffling after the violence he had just committed. “He only got in close that one time.”  
_Because you let him_, I thought. _Because you made him look like a complete amateur, even though he is one of our best._  
But I didn’t say that.

“Okay, shower’s through that door, and some basic first aid. Get yourself cleaned up while I prepare for your tattoo.”  
Jardani held my eyes warmly for a moment longer and murmured, “Thank you,” before disappearing into the bathroom.  
That took me by surprise as well. Bratva types did not typically thank me for anything, though of course no one would risk Daniil’s anger by being outright rude to me. A boyevik with manners – that would take some getting used to.

I sterilised my hands and laid out the needles and inks as the sound of the shower started up next door. I’d made this tattoo so many times that I could probably do it with my eyes closed. The cross was a common enough tattoo, but this one was subtly distinctive to the Tarasovs. Everyone in the New York underbelly would know whose you were if you were branded with this insignia. And it took pride of place on the upper arm, not hidden away like some memberships. Why dwell in the shadows when everyone was afraid of you in broad daylight?

Daniil had inked my tattoo himself three years ago, and at the time I found it quite exciting. The avtoritet himself, marking me as his own. Back then I was grateful to him for getting me off the streets before anything too brutal happened to me, the way it did to so many girls in Belarus. Back then I was still convincing myself that he was kind, really, underneath it all – taking pity on a stray teenager on the streets of Minsk and bringing me to America. But lately I could sense that our relationship was changing. He had been – not cruel exactly. Not yet. But there was something simmering there beneath the charismatic façade.  
I tried to push down a rising sense of anxiety over what my options were if I was no longer dating the avtoritet. Even if Daniil didn’t want me, I doubted he would allow anyone else to have me. And I couldn’t make a life outside the Bratva without a proper American visa.

I was so deep in thought that when Jardani returned, dressed only in his tattered jeans, I almost jumped out of my skin. He reached out a hand to reassure me, and I laughed in embarrassment.  
“Sorry, long day,” I muttered.  
I couldn’t prevent my gaze from raking over the well-defined muscles of his chest and arms, still glistening with moisture from the shower.  
“That shirt is a lost cause, and at least now it won’t be in your way,” Jardani explained.  
I realised I was staring and my gaze snapped back up to meet his eyes. There was just a hint of amusement swimming in his expression.

“Well I see you’re a fan of the skinhead look, so I guess you won’t be needing a cut with your tattoo today,” I joked.  
Jardani grinned at me, the first time I’d seen him smile, and his face was utterly transformed. For a moment he looked young and carefree, and – most surprisingly – _sweet_. I was going to have to be very careful around this one.  
“Yeah, I was in the Marines for a while. Guess the haircut kind of stuck,” he explained, running a hand over the tight buzzcut.  
“And honestly, the last time I grew it out, I looked about twelve,” he confided.

I found myself grinning back at his admission, wondering what he would look like with long, dark hair framing his face. He would be softer, I decided, prettier. It would be a nice contrast to his sharp angles and edges, and more congruent with the warmth in his eyes when he smiled.  
But then, I had seen the other side of him today also – the dangerous side, that allowed him to stab a man in the eye and snap his wrist without a second thought. The side that had chosen to be an assassin.

My smile faded and I turned away, silently berating myself for my naivety as I fitted the first needle to the tattoo machine. Jardani was not some innocent teenager. He was probably brilliant at manipulation… _like Daniil_ I thought to myself grimly.  
“Take a seat,” I said in a tight voice, and he obeyed, looking a little confused at my sudden change of tone.

As I rubbed antiseptic over Jardani’s upper arm, I caught sight of a beautiful tattoo between his shoulder blades – a perfect copy of Dürer’s _Study of the Hands of an Apostle_, with a detailed cross behind. I had to stop and admire the work – the tattoo was perfectly positioned between the broad, strong planes of his back, enhancing the long lines of his form, rather than cluttering them.  
The Latin phrase hovering above it all – _Fortis Fortuna Adiuvat_ – that must be a Marines motto. It was clearly newer, and created with less expertise. But there was something strangely familiar about the cross and praying hands.

I couldn’t resist tracing my fingers lightly over the design, trying to place it. Jardani turned curiously at my touch.  
“This is amazing work,” I murmured. “Dürer, right?”  
“That’s right.”  
“I always thought this sketch would be perfect for a tattoo. It’s like he designed it with that in mind.”  
Jardani smiled at my enthusiasm.  
“Did you study art?”  
I snorted. “Not officially. But I’ve spent a lot of time in museums and galleries.” Jardani raised his eyebrows questioningly. “Slept in the roof of one for a while. Great insulation – they really look after those paintings.”  
Jardani chuckled at my revelation but there was no mistaking the genuine empathy in his eyes.

I put the question of the tattoo’s origin aside and turned back to my task, strangely relieved Jardani was already marked with ink and scars. I’m not sure I would have had the courage to be the first to mar that lush expanse of creamy skin.  
Still, I paused for longer than I usually did, considering the best position for the cross, where it wouldn’t be disrupted by the ripple of muscle across his upper arms.

Jardani suddenly reached out to push my sleeve up gently and examine the cross on my arm.  
“This is the design, right?”  
“Oh, yes it is.”  
He gave a short nod. It certainly couldn’t rival the beauty of his other tattoos, and I suddenly wished I could create something better for him.  
“Who did yours?” he asked.  
“Daniil inked it himself.”  
I could see Jardani thinking.  
“The avtoritet… he’s your boyfriend?”  
I sighed.  
“It’s more than that really.”

As I turned to pick up the tattoo machine, I decided there probably wasn’t any harm in disclosing this part of my story.  
“He got me off the streets when I had no one. Brought me to America, gave me a job, a place to live. But yes, we have been together since then. I owe him.”  
“How old were you?”  
I blinked. “Uh… sixteen?”  
Something changed in Jardani’s eyes, but he merely nodded.  
“I understand,” he said simply, laying back down.

As I got to work on the outer lines of the tattoo, a peaceful quiet descended on the room, broken only by the whirring of the machine.  
“I’m sorry about the needle,” Jardani said suddenly. “I didn’t know that would cause problems for you, or I wouldn’t have done it.”  
I lifted my hands from his skin and stared incredulously.  
“That’s... that’s ok.” My thoughts swam as I tried to process the fact that a member of the Bratva had just apologised to me… _and_ basically sworn to avoid harming me. I could count on one finger the number of times that had happened. And this was it.  
My resolve to keep Jardani at a safe distance was already slipping.

“Thank you,” I whispered finally. “But I’m glad you took it. It was the only way to stop Mikalai from hurting you.”  
“Not the only way,” Jardani muttered. “But the only way without killing him.”  
Silence fell again as I digested that information.  
“Have you killed people before, Jardani?” I asked, already knowing the answer. “Not in the marines, I mean…”  
He met my eyes steadily.  
“Yes.”

Of course. I shouldn’t ask questions, should quit before I heard something I didn’t want to know, but for some reason I couldn’t help myself.  
“This isn’t the first Bratva you’ve been a part of, is it?”  
This time, Jardani breathed in and let it out slowly before answering.  
“Not… exactly.”  
Tension was hovering in the air, and I didn’t want to push him too far.

I let the conversation drop and focused on filling in the centre of the tattoo. It was quicker work here, with a larger needle for shading. Jardani’s gaze drifted between his arm and my face as I concentrated, and I tried to stop myself turning red. With the other initiates there had never been a problem, but something about this man brought heat to my cheeks and derailed my thoughts. It wasn’t just his looks – he had a gentleness that I hadn’t felt from anyone in a long time. I knew it was unlikely, but I had the strangest feeling that I could actually trust him.

Before long, I was wiping the excess ink off Jardani’s finished tattoo. It wasn’t a masterpiece, but it was the best I could do with the plain design. One day, I swore, I’d come up with a piece of artwork that he would be proud to have me ink for him.  
I stood up with a sigh and smiled, and he met my eyes with that soft expression that was slowly destroying me.  
“Dziakuj,” he murmured quietly in Belarusian, and I responded without thinking.  
“Niama za što.”

There was a heavy pause as we both realised what we had done. Jardani’s eyes widened.  
“You’re not Russian,” he murmured.  
“Neither are you.”  
And suddenly I knew the origin of the striking Dürer tattoo. It was the sign of the Ruska Roma.

All at once Jardani’s ballet-like fighting style made sense. The precision and elegance of his movements, the politeness – even the expertise with which he was removing all my carefully-built walls. The Ruska Roma were trained to be beautiful and deadly from early childhood. I knew the stories well. As a child it used to terrify me – the idea that another child could come for me at night and murder me in my sleep if I had been naughty. It was a ghost story, an urban legend to terrify younger children with… but somehow we all knew this one was real. The Ruska Roma were living, breathing nightmares.

I didn’t realise I was backing away until Jardani stood up to follow me across the room and gently take me by the arms.  
“Your accent… I never would have known…” I was stumbling over my words.  
“They trained us well,” Jardani said softly, concern filling his eyes. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me, Elena.”  
I realised I was breathing rapidly and made a conscious effort to slow it down.  
“I thought you wanted everyone to be afraid of you. That’s the job, right?”  
Jardani’s eyes were almost black, his voice dropping to a low murmur, and I strained to hear him, mesmerised. “Not everyone. People who have reason to be afraid.”

My pulse was still rocketing through the roof, and Jardani must have felt it because he let go of my arms and dropped his gaze to the floor.  
“The choice of whether or not to kill was taken away from me very young. It is not something I take pride in.”  
I swallowed hard.  
“What do you take pride in, then?”  
Jardani thought about that for a moment.  
“I perfect the movement, the craft and precision of it. I don’t cause undue suffering.”  
He hesitated. “Unless someone makes me truly angry.”  
“What would make you so angry?”  
“Harming a child. An animal. Something that has no hope of defence.”

I took a long, steadying breath. Jardani wasn’t some nightmare, he was right here in front of me, looking at me now with an almost comical level of worry. Still…  
“But you got out. You came to America. You were a _Marine_, of all things. Why would you go back to…”  
Jardani sighed heavily.  
“It’s not something I can explain to you now – or here, for that matter.”  
Suddenly he took my hand in both of his and looked at me fiercely. I felt as though my heart would stop.  
“I will explain it to you when it’s safe, I promise.”

My thoughts whirled at that – why he would trust me, why he would bother to explain himself to me, and why he imagined there would ever be somewhere we could go together to be_ safe_. I only managed to spit out a single word.  
“Why?”  
He grinned then, actually _grinned_ in my still-terrified face, his eyes sparkling with mischief.  
“_That_ is a very good question. I’ve been asking myself the same thing.”  
He paused, and the tension between us rose to a fever pitch. Then he turned and hurried out of the room.

I’m sure it was a good thing he left. I’m sure at any moment, Daniil would have stormed in demanding to know what was taking so long.  
But all I knew, as I stood there with my back against the wall and my mouth hanging open, wondering what on earth had just happened, was that I was a lost cause. Mistake or not, I was rapidly developing a dangerous fascination with this Jardani Jovonovich.


	3. The Fire Will Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Russian translations:  
Ogon' vspomnit – The fire will remember  
Dobro pozhalovat' v bratstvo – Welcome to the brotherhood

JARDANI

My pulse thudded in my ears as I tore myself away from Elena and headed back towards the arena. That was incredibly foolish, promising to give the girl my story. I had no idea whether she could be trusted, or if she was naïve enough to be loyal to Daniil, a man who clearly used and abused whoever he needed to maintain control. And yet I found that I couldn’t regret my words. Something inside me had leapt immediately to her defence. 

I wasn’t sure if Daniil was hurting Elena, but from the way he looked at her while I was in the ring, I could sense something was off. Then when she told me he’d pulled her out of Belarus at just 16 – a mere child – and kept her in virtual servitude ever since, I lost my mind a little bit.

_If only she hadn’t reminded me so much of –_ I shut that thought down before it could gain any foothold. I’d been through this before, in my time with the Marines. Letting protectiveness overrule my survival instincts. Letting rage do the thinking for me. Surely, with the way that shit show ended, I’d have learnt my lesson.  
Apparently not.

As I entered the stinking, bloodstained room every head turned to face me. The only light now came from a few spluttering candelabras, and Daniil was clad in what appeared to be a priest’s robe. The new boyeviks were lined up in front of him, each one bare chested, with fresh tattoos and heads newly shorn. I now understood Elena’s crack about not needing to cut my hair – it must be part of the initiation. I had to stifle a laugh of disbelief at the elaborate ceremony. Was Daniil going to make us drink blood or pledge our souls to him or something?

I took my place in the line, consciously letting my face fall into impassivity. I had to avoid drawing attention to myself. The plan was not to spend too long with this branch of the Tarasovs. Just one more rung up the ladder was access to the Continental, decent money, my choice of contracts, and blessed freedom from answering to anyone but the High Table.

Daniil made his way at an achingly slow pace down the line, seeming to check that the tattoos passed muster, but clearly wanting to reinforce his position as avtoritet. He could keep us standing here all night if he wanted to, and we would do it. I kept my gaze forward, ignoring Daniil’s silent interrogation, refusing to either let my eyes drop before his gaze, or to meet his stare directly and challenge the man. Whether he knew it or not, I could very easily kill him. And that was exactly why I needed to maintain the appearance of submission.

Eventually he mounted the dais overlooking the arena, surveying his new recruits gleefully with what I suspected was a sudden rush of power. He took a candle and bent to light a huge brazier with a metal cross behind. It leapt into flames at once, and I watched as his gleaming blue eyes, illuminated now by firelight, took on a slightly manic glaze.

“You have made it this far. So far, and just a little further to go.”  
Daniil’s voice, smooth and steely, rang with authority, and I could sense some of the younger initiates in the line were completely drawn in.

Earlier I had assumed Daniil’s high position was entirely down to a family connection, but now I saw there was something compelling about the tall, broad man, with his long, pale hair and icy eyes. I wouldn’t underestimate him just because he was drawn to theatrics. If nothing else, there was great danger in antagonising a man so clearly in love with himself.

“Jardani Jovonovich. The one who does not fight, but completes the task given to him.”  
He raised an eyebrow and I met his gaze then, not aggressively, but without hesitation.  
“That’s right.”  
He paused, looking me over with a mixture of arrogance and curiosity warring on his face.  
“One final task for today.”

He held out a crisp white envelope and I stepped forward to receive it. Inside was nothing but a photograph, with a name and address written on the back. He was an older man, dignified, his posture suggesting that he moved at ease through the world. The name on the back was Nikolai Vasiliev, the address somewhere in Hell’s Kitchen. Neither meant anything to me.

One by one, the other new boyeviks were likewise called by name and given an envelope.  
That was simple enough then.

“You have tonight to take your first mark as Tarasov.”  
Daniil let that sink in for a moment, and the bloodlust in the room was suddenly almost palpable enough to smell. I pushed down a sudden flashback to another room on the other side of the world, where I had been on the receiving end of that unholy desire.  
It never failed to make me sick to my stomach – the idea of killing for pleasure.

Daniil stepped closer to us, his mouth turning upwards in a grin that did not reach his eyes.  
“You will each bring back a piece of the body to gift to the sacred fire. I do not care which part, but choose wisely, for the fire will remember.”  
And there it was. The ritual part I was waiting for. Not as bad as it could have been, but if there was any doubt in my mind before that Daniil was slightly unhinged, this had cleared it up for me.

We filed out of the room, led by one of the shestyorka, and each took turns suiting up and selecting our weapons. Some of the kids were picking out real showy stuff, but I went straight for my usual HK P30L. Call me a predictable old vet, but I knew that gun inside out and it was ergonomic and reliable, with a recoil as smooth as butter. I took two, as well as a couple of Glock 26 subcompacts and a knife with a serrated edge. That ought to do it.

As I left the armoury, I caught sight of myself in the glass of the gun cabinets. Dark shadow of hair against pale skin, eyes pitch black in the low light. The painfully new leather shoes were going to take some getting used to, and I hardly recognised myself in a full suit. Not my usual combat outfit by any means. I suspected the jacket would go by the wayside as soon as I reached the target location.

But the air outside was close to freezing, and I was suddenly grateful for my new clothes. I crossed the road and walked a few streets down, then hailed a cab and gave directions to a bar I knew a few blocks from my destination. Tempting though it was, I ignored the call of bourbon and hurried the remaining distance, to where I could survey the location before venturing inside.

There were only two guards at the entrance. I took them out quietly without even touching my guns. They weren’t expecting any trouble.  
The whole building was eerily empty, and the few men I did find were so easy to eliminate that it all seemed like an elaborate prank.  
I was on high alert, waiting for the sudden appearance of the rest of Nikolai’s crew.

Finally, after searching every room on every floor, I found myself in a beautiful bookshelf-lined study, where my mark was waiting.  
Nikolai sat calmly at a polished walnut desk, drinking what I knew was an outrageously rare bottle of Karuizawa. His eyes followed me as I entered the room, but he didn’t seem at all surprised to see me. He was older than the picture had implied, his remaining white hair falling in a thin sweep over his wrinkled forehead. I lifted my gun but his only response was to pick up the bottle and pour a second glass.

“Good evening, Tarasov boy. I figured you’d be coming for me soon. Drink?”  
He held the whisky out to me with a gnarled hand, a huge gold signet ring flashing in the light.  
I waved it off, confused by his casual demeanour. It had all been too easy – the ineffective guards outside, the rooms inside virtually empty.  
I circled him slowly, waiting to for the trap to spring.

“One of Daniil’s new recruits I suppose?”  
He waited, and when the silence grew too long I frowned and nodded once.  
“Hmm. Try not to antagonise that one. He has no sense of humour.”  
I snorted, but did not respond.

“Well young man, I know what you’re here to do and I have no intention of stopping you. In fact, I gave all my usual men the night off.”  
I came in closer. If this was a ruse, he was a remarkably convincing actor.  
“Why so eager to die, old man?”  
“Not eager, no.”  
I lifted an eyebrow and he kicked back in his chair, took a sip of the whisky. The smoky scent wafted towards me, taunting me.

“I’m dying already. The price of the life I’ve lived. But I’d rather not end my days in a hospital. This is more… fitting.”

He offered me the second glass again. There was no indication of dishonesty in his tone, or his expression. Fuck it. I was unlikely to ever see a bottle of this stuff again. I kept the gun trained on him with one hand and with the other I grabbed the whisky, almost groaning at the complexity of flavours that hit my tongue. The man smiled at that, and leaned all the way in to eyeball me.  
“Get out of this life, son. Whatever you think you’re doing it for, it’s not worth it.”

I sighed. No sense in lying to someone who would soon be a dead man.   
“I tried. It kept coming back for me.”  
“Find a way,” Nikolai urged, “before it’s too late.”

I had a sudden urge to pour my heart out to this man, confess everything I’d ever done. As though he could absolve me, free me somehow of the consequences of every choice I’d made… and the choices that were taken away from me.  
But the feeling passed as quickly as it came.

Nikolai must have noticed my expression change, because he finished his scotch with a little sigh, and sat back in his chair. He ran a had through his hair and straightened his jacket, then looked me directly in the eyes.  
“I’m ready.”

His eyes never left mine as I pulled the trigger.

I was very careful to shoot directly into the brain and heart. I was very precise, and very swift – he would have felt nothing. But those eyes would continue to haunt my dreams.

With a small groan I took out my knife and swiftly removed his ring finger. Subtle, but the signet ring would be proof enough of a job done. Let Daniil make what he wanted of that. I wasn’t walking around NYC with a severed head in my hands.

As it turned out, Daniil seemed strangely impressed by my choice. Most of the other boyeviks had leaned into the theatricality, choosing tongues, eyeballs and the like. As I offered up the ring-clad finger, Daniil’s eyes gleamed. He smeared some of the blood across my forehead before casting the finger into the flames.  
“Ogon' vspomnit.” (The fire will remember).   
He leaned in then, kissing me on the lips.   
“Dobro pozhalovat' v bratstvo.” (Welcome to the brotherhood). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I am back after a lengthy hiatus! My apologies to anyone who was following this fic.  
I've been interstate and overseas, working on several other projects, and finally had time to come back and visit Jardani.  
Hope you enjoy!


	4. I Knew I Was Fucked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bullet, a dog, a drawing.

JARDANI

I took a few photos of the young Italian man at my feet, his blood rapidly seeping from multiple gunshot wounds into the plush white rug. That done, I stepped over the three guards I’d taken out earlier, and slipped out of the apartment via the fire escape. Once Daniil had confirmed the hit, the photos would disappear forever.

As I made my way down the road a lonely police car slid past, and I subtly angled my torn, bloody jacket sleeve out of sight. In The Bronx the cops were mainly for show anyway. They would make their best attempts to stay out of our way, and they were paid well for it. I kept walking at a casual pace, wondering if Daniil would send in the cleanup squad for the mafia kid, or if the Tarasov reputation was enough to prevent any blowback for his death. Guess we’d all find out before long, when the next batch of contracts came out.

Just over a month in this new Bratva, it was already wearing on me to take instruction from a man like Daniil. I wondered again what I needed to do to attract the attention of Viggo Tarasov. I had already proven myself capable - perhaps the pakhan wished to see whether I could follow orders too. In the meantime I would keep my head down and try not to kill Daniil out of sheer irritation.

The crazy thing was, the guy really seemed to like me. I had a good rep now with the Bratva, got the job done without much of a mess, and followed orders like the good little soldier I once was.

Only Mikalai seemed to take issue with me, for obvious reasons. He’d come back after a few days with an eye patch and a grudge, and I guess I didn’t blame him. Still, his eye should have healed better than that. I suspected the so-called surgeon wasn’t particularly passionate about his work.

A siren suddenly blared in the distance, waking me from my musing. The day was losing light and it must be close to 8pm. I tried to get a look at the wound on my shoulder which had turned my shirt into a sodden mess beneath my jacket. Damn. I was going to have to visit Elena tonight.

It was still a long way back to Queens, and bleeding all over a cab wasn’t a great idea, so I figured it was time to ‘borrow’ a car. A few streets over, I spotted an early 70s model Chevrolet and couldn’t stop the grin that crept onto my face. Beautiful.

It took about five seconds to slip a piece of wire down behind the window seal and unlock the door, and about another 20 seconds to hot wire it.  
As the engine sparked with a soft growl, a shiver ran over my skin. One day I was going to have to get myself a nice classic car. Legally. Or thereabouts.

I practically flew through the streets, as good as empty on a Monday night, and left the car wiped clean and parked behind a Chinese restaurant a couple of miles from base. As I jogged the remaining distance, I tried to keep a hand pressed against my bleeding shoulder. An increased pulse rate wasn’t going to help me right now.

It wasn’t until I had one fist raised to knock on Elena’s door that I realised - I was supposed to be staying away from her. I’d already let her slip beneath my guard, and admittedly I was keeping an eye on her from a distance, but any further developments of our friendship could put her in danger.

I turned to leave, but a sudden wave of light-headedness had me clutching at the door frame. Shit. Well, I couldn’t stitch up my own shoulder. It was Elena or the surgeon who’d done a hatchet job on Mikalai. I knew who I preferred.  
I pushed the door open and it swung in without a sound.

At first glance I thought Elena wasn’t there. I scanned the room again and finally spotted her curled up on a love seat facing the window, sketching something in the last light of the dying day.

She was so engrossed in her work that she didn’t turn as I stumbled towards her. I caught a glimpse of her sketch - what looked like a beautiful woman in her 40s - before another wave of dizziness hit, this time with a buzzing sound in my ears. I fell forward, in the direction I was looking, and all but collapsed into Elena’s lap.

Elena’s huge, startled eyes were suddenly just inches from mine, but recognition hit a moment later and she tried to help support my upper body.  
“Sorry,” I mumbled, using the arms of the chair to push myself back to my feet. Elena was beside me in an instant, helping me over to a stretcher bed in the corner.

I lay down in relief and Elena gave me a quick once over, a huge smear of my blood across her shirt.  
“This fainting is down to blood loss?”  
“Definitely,” I gasped, my voice strangely hoarse.  
She adjusted the angle of the stretcher bed at my confirmation, so that my feet were higher than my head. I started to breathe a little easier, but my head was still spinning.  
“Any broken bones in there?”  
I shook my head, and immediately regretted it as another wave of dizziness hit.  
“Just the bullet wound in my shoulder.”

Elena’s expression was serious, all business now. I hadn’t seen her in this mode before. She was surprisingly - and impressively - professional.

She swiftly cut through my torn jacket and shirt, peeling the strips of fabric off to reveal a deep gash in my right shoulder, still steadily oozing blood.  
Within a half minute she had me hooked up to a saline solution, and was wiping down the area around the wound with a swab. The smell of pure alcohol stung my nose.

“It’s gone through cleanly but it’s a bit deeper than I’d like. I’ll stitch you up but it’s still going to leave a pretty impressive scar.”  
“Well it won’t be the first,” I mumbled.  
She gave me a wry grin and set to work on the stitches, with no more warning than that.  
I gritted my teeth at the pull of the needle on my flesh, but the pain was minimal compared with what I’d experienced earlier that day.

“Thanks for choosing the arm without my new artwork at least,” she muttered, concentrating.  
I chuckled.  
“You’re welcome.”  
My vision was still blurry, so I tried to focus on her face. I could have sworn her cheeks grew redder under my gaze.

“I thought the Ruska Roma were supposed to be untouchable, unbreakable angels of death.”  
I grimaced.  
“Just flesh and blood, I’m afraid.”  
Elena smiled at me then, and the sparkle in her eyes warmed me all the way down to my toes. It probably wasn’t wise, but I was glad to see that she was no longer afraid of me. 

“Seriously though – you haven’t come in to see me once since initiation. I was beginning to think you only get injured when you want to.”  
“I uh…”  
I trailed off, not sure how to explain without sounding crazy.  
“There was a dog.”  
Elena quirked an eyebrow at me.  
“A dog?”

I sighed. There was no getting around the story.  
“There was this gorgeous husky in the apartment today. Kept getting in the way, trying to defend his master. I could have dodged the bullet but it would have hit the dog and I just…”   
Elena was gazing at me, incredulous.  
“You took a bullet for a dog? Not even _your _dog?”  
“I uh… well, I just… well… yes,” I trailed off lamely.

She burst out laughing then, shaking her head.  
I chuckled as well, pleased that I’d made her laugh at least.   
“Jardani Jovonovich,” she murmured, staring at me with an awed expression, “What _are_ you?”  
I didn’t have an answer for that, and a moment later Elena tied off the stitching and applied a clean bandage over my shoulder.

I was starting to feel the exhaustion of the day.  
“Thank you Elena,” I murmured, eyes half closing.  
“You’re welcome,” she said warmly, “But I don’t want you sleeping just yet.”  
I forced my eyes open and realised she was leaning over me, her hands pressing gently on the mottled bruising on my torso.  
“Just checking for broken ribs,” she replied to my unasked question.

“Where did you learn all this, Elena? You’re too young to have studied medicine...”  
She hesitated - opened her mouth and closed it again, before replying simply, “From my mother. Before she died.”

Her mother. My mind flashed back to her drawing suddenly, the familiarity of the woman in the picture...  
“Your drawing...”  
She looked up sharply then.  
“You could see that?”  
“Yes, absolutely. She’s beautiful. You look just like her.”

The words were out before I had properly considered them. Ah well, it was true.  
Later I could blame it on my foggy brain.

Elena’s eyes widened and took a long, slow breath before replying.  
“Thank you,” she whispered, then continued her gentle exploration of my battered abdomen.  
I couldn’t help watching her as she worked, and for a moment I let myself admit _yeah she really is gorgeous. And amazingly capable. And resilient. And a talented artist.   
__Oh...  
__Shit._

I shifted slightly under her hands and winced at the pull from the stitches.  
“Did that hurt?”  
“Just my shoulder.”  
She nodded.  
“Uh, I should really make sure you don’t have any other injuries you didn’t notice.”  
“Sure.”  
Her gaze drifted down to my pants.  
“Oh, right. Go ahead.”

I tried not to think about the fact that this was the first time Elena would see me in my underwear.  
Why should it matter?  
It definitely didn’t matter.

She was back in professional mode, unbuckling my pants and sliding them off to press careful fingers against any small wounds.  
The feeling of her firm, nimble fingers on every part of my body was surprisingly comforting. It had been a long time since I’d been touched so thoroughly. It was some other things besides comforting too, but I pushed those feelings firmly aside.

After a couple of minutes examining every inch of my skin, she appeared satisfied.  
“Feeling less dizzy now?”  
I thought for a second. The buzzing sound had stopped, and most of the room was in focus. My thoughts were still strangely scattered though.  
“Definitely better.”

“Good. I’d like to keep you here for a while though - you’ve lost a lot of blood.”  
I resisted saying that she could keep me here as long as she wanted.  
Thoughts. Definitely. Scrambled.  
“I can’t stay – Daniil is expecting me – but Alek will keep any eye on you until you’re able to get up.”

Elena pressed a button on the wall and soon a young shestyorka appeared at the door. She gave him some quiet instructions before turning back to me.  
“Come and see me tomorrow so I can check on the wound and change the dressing.”  
Well, there was no more avoiding Elena. Let the chips fall where they may.  
“Ok.”

“You can shower later, but avoid getting water on your shoulder.”  
I nodded. No wave of dizziness hit this time.   
“I’ll ask Daniil not to give you any contracts for a few days.”  
“Elena...”  
“Let me... let me look after you a little bit, Jardani.”  
She leaned in, so close I could feel her soft breath. “Please.”  
I swallowed hard and knew that I was fucked.  
“Ok.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was tossing up between posting a chapter from Elena's POV next, or one from Jardani's, and I've gone with this one.  
I really wanted to try playing with two different POVs for this story, so hopefully it's all making sense and seems relatively cohesive. It's new for me - but kind of thrilling - to write and share with only a general idea of where things are headed.  
Thanks again for reading!


	5. When It’s Safe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wunderkind/Vunderkind - a person who achieves great success when relatively young.
> 
> Russian terms:  
Krasavitsa - beautiful (to praise someone)  
Soldaty - soldiers  
Kotik - pussycat  
Malysh - baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: (subtle) depiction of domestic violence

ELENA

“There’s blood on your shirt,” Daniil said, casting a critical eye over me as I entered the bedroom.   
I looked down. Shit, I’d forgotten the blood.

“Uh, yes.”  
“Whose?”  
“Jardani’s.”  
Daniil raised an eyebrow.  
“So the vunderkind has a flaw after all. I was beginning to think he was immortal.”  
I smiled tightly, knowing there was a purpose to this investigation. 

“So tell me, Elena, how did the mighty Jardani Jovonovich reveal his weakness?”  
A slightly hysterical giggle burst out.  
“Uh... he took a bullet for a dog,” I stammered, trying to hold in my nerves. But I couldn’t help the grinning at the story. “It wasn’t even  _his_ dog.”

Daniil laughed with me, “How astonishing. He’s already becoming a legend.”  
But his smile faded as he stared deep into my eyes.  
“That doesn’t explain, however, why his blood is all over your shirt. Did you perform invasive surgery perhaps?”

I swallowed.  
“He sort of... collapsed when he came in. I had to help him to the bed.”  
“You didn’t need to call for help?” Daniil questioned, still holding my gaze.  
“No, I could manage. Alek is with him now though.”  
Daniil nodded. 

I took a risk then, seeing as we were already discussing Jardani.  
“It would be best if he could rest for a few days. He lost a lot of blood,” I said, trying not to sound demanding.  
“Of course,” Daniil purred, spreading his hands magnanimously. “We wouldn’t want to permanently damage one of our new boyeviks so early in the game.” 

“Now,” Daniil approached me, strong hands ripping open my ruined shirt, “Let’s get rid of this mess.”  
Buttons popped onto the floor and I slipped my shirt the rest of the way off.  
“Pants too.”  
I undressed and stood there waiting in my underwear, still unsure where this was all heading. 

“I got you something for tomorrow. A Valentino.”  
I’d completely forgotten. Tomorrow Daniil and I were meeting Viggo Tarasov and the rest of the family for lunch at The Continental.  
Business was always discussed at The Continental.  
“Put it on now,” Daniil ordered. “I want to make sure it fits.”

He pulled a lace and sheer floral masterpiece out of the closet, and I actually gasped. Daniil’s eyes lit with satisfaction as I stepped carefully into it and turned for him to zip me up.  
“Krasavitsa,”  he sighed, his fingers tracing the back of my neck.  
I leaned into his touch, hoping the interrogation was over.

“Jardani’s very pretty, isn’t he, Elena?”  
And there it was. _Careful now_.  
My pulse quickened but I knew answering honestly was the least dangerous option.  
“Uh, yes Daniil, he is.”

Daniil turned me around and smiled, clearly pleased at my easy admission. His fingers were still playing with the hair at the back of my neck.

“Has he been to see you before?”  
“No.”  
“Not even to clean up his new tattoo?”  
“No, Daniil.”  
He looked thoughtful.  
“Or for a haircut?”  
“No, Daniil.”  
“Well, that much is obvious. Next time he comes in I want you to fix that hair,” Daniil said, playing with the tendrils escaping my long ponytail. “I don’t want my soldaty looking like little scarecrows.”  
“Yes, Daniil.”

He eyed me sternly then, fingers trembling slightly on my throat.  
“You’re not falling in love with him, are you kotik?”  
I held his gaze and answered without hesitation.  
“No, Daniil. I’m not.”

He kissed me fiercely then, his fingers pressed just a bit too tightly around my throat, constricting my breathing. 

“You are loyal to me always, aren’t you malysh?” he whispered, kissing his way down my neck.  
“Always,” I whispered back, my voice a little hoarse. But I captured his lips again, determined to convince him, and eventually his fingers drifted from my throat to hitch my new dress up around my waist. 

Later, after sex and cigarettes, when Daniil was snoring softly with his back to me, I finally allowed myself to feel the fear that had coursed through me earlier. Wave after wave of shivers shook me, and I waited until I felt calm before I thought the situation over.

Daniil wasn’t usually quite this paranoid, but it did happen from time to time, when someone entered the Bratva that he felt threatened by.

As for the other matter...  
_Was_ I in love with Jardani?  
Of course not. 

But I couldn’t deny it had bothered me that he hadn’t come to see me even once since that first night.

I tried to get on with things. Tried to pretend that I didn’t notice him just about everywhere. At meals. In the corridors. At the arena. In the gym. At the lap pool (_Oh my god, Jardani in swimwear was absolutely sinful_).  
Obviously it was just a stupid crush, a stupid  _dangerous_ crush, but the pull towards him every time we were in the same room was incredibly strong.

He was polite, of course, even kind in small ways. My singular kind Bratva boy. But he treated me virtually the same as everyone else. 

I wasn’t stupid. I knew he couldn’t just start acting like my friend, particularly in front of Daniil.  
But useless feelings aside, it was three of his words that rang in my mind over and over, and I struggled to reconcile their meaning. “I will explain it to you _when it’s safe_, I promise.”

When it’s safe.  
When would we ever be safe unless we were far away?

If there was one person who could get me out, it was Jardani.  
I didn’t pin any real hopes on that, of course. Why would he defy the Tarasovs, destroy his chance at a career as the best goddamn assassin anyone had ever heard of, for a girl he barely knew? He wouldn’t. I knew he wouldn’t. 

But a small part of me couldn’t help imagining us breaking free of the Bratva, the Tarasovs, the country, the whole damn system. And... well. Best not to dwell on what else we could get up to once we were free. It was never going to happen. 

I rolled over and did my best to fall asleep. But my thoughts kept racing, turning back again and again to a pair of soft dark eyes that gazed up into mine, and quietly set me on fire.

*

I twirled the stem of a crystal champagne flute in my hand as Daniil and Viggo spoke in hushed tones. The other wives and girlfriends looked as bored as I was. Some of them were talking amongst themselves, but I had given up on that after my first few outings. Many of the women were even more threatening than the Bratva men. 

I let my gaze drift to our reflections in the shimmering glass windows. It used to give me such a thrill to dress this way for Daniil, to see us side by side - him in Armani and me in Valentino - his pale hair and eyes the perfect, striking counterbalance to my warmer features.

Now I didn’t see his high cheekbones or the luscious long hair that he was so proud of. I didn’t see myself dressed in clothes I could only dream about, on the arm of a gorgeous avtoritet.  
I just saw that I looked unhappy, and that Daniil couldn’t care less.

I was starting to wonder whether I could actually fall asleep with my eyes open, when the men finally seemed to reach some agreement, and Viggo raised his voice to include the rest of the table again. 

“How are all your new boyeviks working out, Daniil? No disappointments, I hope?”  
Daniil waved his hand.  
“No pakhan, they are all proving themselves worthy of the Tarasov name.”   
“Good, good. And how is the young man who’s got a rather clever way with a pencil - Jovonovich, wasn’t it?”  
“He is worthy, Viggo,” Daniil replied. “Pakhan, I wanted to ask...”

“Has he distinguished himself yet?” Viggo continued.  
Daniil blinked, confused.  
“He is very skilled, I suppose.”  
“But has he done anything extraordinary?” Viggo pressed.  
“Well,” Daniil mused, “He did take a bullet for a dog yesterday.”  
“Did he indeed?” Viggo exclaimed with a delighted grin. 

”Yes,” Daniil said shortly. “Pakhan, I was wondering...”  
“When he next impresses you, make Jovonovich a bratok. I want to see how he deals with greater responsibility,” Viggo ordered.  
Daniil was stunned into silence.  
“And do let me know if he excels in any particular endeavours. I will soon require a new brigadier.”

I had never seen Daniil speechless before, but he was almost spluttering now.  
“I knew from the moment I first saw him that the boy was exceptional,” Viggo grinned. “I want to give him a chance to prove himself. But it’s only a matter of time.” 

The table was silent, all eyes on Daniil awaiting his reaction. It was no secret that it had long been his hope to join Viggo as a brigadier.

“Pakhan, I have served you tirelessly for five years...” Daniil trailed off, clearly shaken.  
But Viggo just looked at him without saying a word. When the silence because uncomfortable, Daniil took a breath and composed himself.  
“But of course, to train Jovonovich as brigadier for you would be my great honour,” he whispered. 

Viggo nodded and immediately changed topic, leaning over to ask one of the wives about her plans to buy more property back in Russia.  
But while Viggo may have moved on, I could feel Daniil seething with humiliation beside me. He would be a nightmare to deal with later on. I would have to try to stay away from him until he fell asleep.

I hadn’t known that Jardani was so highly favoured by Viggo, or - for that matter - that he was as impressive to the Bratva as he was to me. 

My heart sunk as I realised he was clearly destined for a career with the Tarasovs. Jardani would never return to civilian life. Would never have a life at all really.

I swallowed hard and pushed my silly dreams of escape deep down inside me where they wouldn’t hurt so much. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting now because I finished this in record time and I can't wait for the weekend! My muse is firing on all cylinders right now. 
> 
> Also, I may have based Daniil's appearance a little bit off The Witcher because I've got him on my mind right now and, well, yum.


	6. Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belarusian translations  
JA chaču dapamahčy vam – I want to help you  
Dziakuj – thank you  
Kali laska - a Belarusian version of ‘you are welcome’ but said in a tender way

JARDANI

I had already checked Elena’s med bay a few times, but she wasn’t in. I knew I was under strict orders not to exert myself, but resting had never been easy for me. After a walk around the neighbourhood, a couple of whiskies at the local, and re-reading _On The Road_ for the hundredth time, I was starting to feel like a rat in a cage.

On my fourth trip, I caught sight of Elena’s sketch book lying near the window. I know I shouldn’t have looked, but – blame it on the boredom – I couldn’t help myself. The pages were bursting with all kinds of artwork. Moody European landscapes in charcoal, abstract watercolours, and hundreds of intricately penned tattoo designs. But what really drew me in were the faces. She could capture a personality with just a few lines, or render a likeness in extraordinary detail. Which is why, when I found my own face staring back at me from one of the last few pages, I was so startled I nearly dropped the book.

There was no doubt that it was me, though she had drawn me a little older, with long hair, a hint of a beard and a pensive gaze, half my face obscured in dark shadow. I stared at it in shock. How could she recall my face in such detail, after knowing me such a short time? And what was with the hair and beard? My heart started beating a little faster, and I quickly closed the sketch book and repositioned it where I’d found it.

A moment later I spun around as the door to the med bay opened and Elena walked in wearing beautiful dress that enhanced every curve of her body, honey-brown hair swept up high to reveal a graceful neck. Her hazel eyes were weary but they widened as she took me in. I opened and closed my mouth like an idiot, all words abandoning me.

“Jardani!” she exclaimed, “I’m so sorry – I completely forgot. Just let me change and I’ll be right with you.”  
“Oh… sure… no problem,” I mumbled as she hefted the small pile of clothes in her arms and rushed past me into the bathroom, leaving me a little weak at the knees.  
Apparently it wasn’t the blood loss that had me swooning over Elena yesterday. And, if the sketch was anything to go by, there was a chance she felt the same. I’d have to be very careful. There was no way indulging these feelings could end well for either of us.

After just a few minutes, Elena emerged in jeans and a RATM t-shirt, her hair still in that sophisticated updo. I couldn’t help smiling at the mismatch which was, quite frankly, adorable.  
“Sorry,” she huffed, more flustered than I’d ever seen her before. “Let’s get a look at that bullet wound.”  
I sat down and let Elena remove the dressing, wincing a little as she poked at my arm.  
“Looks pretty good, but tender. You haven’t been exercising, have you?”  
“No, ma’am,” I joked, but she only gave me a brief smile, not meeting my eyes.

“Well, keep the wound covered while you shower for now. Tomorrow you can do some light activity that won’t tear the stitches out, and I’ll remove them a couple of days after that.”  
I couldn’t help letting out a sigh of relief, which drew more of a genuine smile from Elena.   
“Bored today, huh?” she teased.  
“You have no idea.”  
“Trust you to be desperate to throw yourself back into life-threatening situations, Jardani Jovonovich,” she muttered quietly.

As Elena gently cleaned my arm and replaced the dressing, her eyes drifted up to my hair a few times. I thought of the sketch and wondered if she was picturing me like that.  
Eventually I caught her eye and she cleared her throat.  
“Daniil told me I should trim up your hair when you came in today. Said he doesn’t want his soldaty looking like scarecrows.”  
I rolled my eyes and ran a hand through my hair. That sounded like Daniil.

“Oh, right. I haven’t really thought about it since I got here.”  
That was a lie. I’d been avoiding Elena and could do exactly one style myself: buzzed off.  
“I can clipper it myself though,” I suggested quickly. “Don’t worry about it.”

Elena opened her mouth to say something and closed it again, which drew my attention to her lips. I’d never seen her with lipstick before, and it was unfairly distracting. She reached out and ran her fingers through my hair, moving it from side to side as she bit her bottom lip in thought. It was all some kind of delicious torture, and I swallowed hard when she finally released me.  
  
“I think you’d look great with it longer. I can neaten up the sides and the back, keep it in shape as it grows,” Elena murmured.  
I knew there was a reason I was supposed to reject the offer, but the feeling of her fingers in my hair had wrested me of the capacity to think.  
“You won’t look 12, I promise,” she said softly.

Huh. I was surprised she remembered I’d said that. Oh well, I could always shave it off later if need be.  
“Sure Elena,” I agreed, “Whatever you think is best.”  
Elena nodded and flicked a cape around my shoulders with no hesitation. A moment later she was behind me, and I heard the whir of clippers start up.

Elena angled my head forward so she could buzz up the back. Her grip was firm, her use of the clippers confident. The feeling of her fingers on my newly shorn head, combined with the whir of the clippers, had a hypnotic effect. I slowly relaxed and decided to just enjoy the attention. This wasn’t something I usually bothered with. Elena tilted my head to one side and then the other, buzzing around my ears, before switching guards and blending upwards.

After several minutes the clippers flicked off and Elena picked up a pair of shears. Little pieces of hair began landing on my shoulders and Elena ran her fingers through my hair again and again as she worked. I felt my muscles completely relax for the first time in an age, my eyes slowly falling closed.

Distantly, I realised Elena was brushing the stray hairs off my shoulders and figured the ‘salon treatment’ was over. But her fingers moved back up into my hair as she slowly began to massage my scalp. I had to stifle a moan – it felt amazing. She spent a few minutes doing that before making her way down to my neck and then my shoulders, finding a knot on the side with my injured arm and slowly kneading it away.

Elena was in front of me when I opened my eyes, a soft expression on her face. I wasn’t sure how long it had been since the massage ended. Oh my god, had I actually fallen asleep? I could not remember the last time I had let my guard down this much with anyone. Perhaps not since I was a child. She met my eyes with a tiny sad smile and it took all my willpower not to close the small distance between us and kiss her.

Elena leaned in and I almost gave in to the temptation, realising at the last moment that she was simply removing the cape. I chuckled at my own idiocy and let my gaze drop to Elena’s neck. That was when I saw them: faint bruises in a mottled pattern across her trachea. She had obviously covered them up with foundation but at this short distance they were visible. 

“Elena…” I gasped.   
“What’s wrong?”  
“Your neck,” I exclaimed, instinctively reaching out for her, but she flinched away, her hand coming up to hide the bruising.  
“It’s nothing,” she murmured, starting to clear away her tools. But I wasn’t going to let it go that easily.

“What happened?” I asked. There was no reply as she picked up a broom and started to sweep the hair away.  
“Elena?” I insisted, standing up to follow her across the room.  
“Just leave it, Jardani,” she muttered, sweeping furiously with her back to me.   
“Did Daniil do that to you?”  
She stopped, her shoulders slumping wearily.   
“Elena?”

I took her arm to turn her around and there were tears rolling down her face. Her hands shook so much that I immediately took the broom and led her over to the loveseat near the window. Caution be damned. I pulled Elena in tight to my chest and held her as she shivered with silent tears. My fury built steadily until I was scarcely an inch away from hunting down Daniil and taking him out right then.

It took a few minutes before her ragged breaths became more even, and she pushed away from me, wiping her eyes on the backs of her hands.  
“I’m sorry, Jardani. I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she whispered.  
“I do.” I was near blind with rage and my words were tight. “Your _boyfriend _is an arrogant, abusive, pathetic piece of…”  
  
Elena shushed me, a horrified look on her face.  
“Jardani, you can’t say these things. You don’t know who’s listening.”  
“I don’t care!” I exclaimed, but I lowered my voice. “How _dare_ he lay a finger on you? And when I’m finished with him, he won’t be...”  
I was halfway out of the chair but Elena dragged me back down.  
“Jardani! This will be so much worse for me if you get involved!”

I knew she was right, but it was so tempting. I drew in a long breath and tried to ignore the adrenalin coursing through my veins.  
“Tell me what happened.”  
“I can’t,” Elena whispered.   
“Has he done this before?”  
She hesitated. “Once or twice. When he felt threatened by someone.”  
“Who threatened him this time?”  
She didn’t answer.  
“Me?”  
Elena nodded once, then looked away from me, her gaze distant.

“I want to warn you about what happened at the Continental today,” she said, “But I need to know if you can stop yourself from acting on it. You’re not supposed to know yet.”  
_Fair enough._ I took a deep breath to steady myself.  
“I promise.”  
She paused for a long minute.

“We had lunch with Viggo today, and I know Daniil thought they were there to discuss making him a brigadier.”  
She stopped again.  
“But Viggo wouldn’t stop talking about you.”  
_Wait… Viggo was already asking about me?  
_“Jardani, he wants Daniil to promote you to bratok. And… eventually Viggo is looking to poach you. For brigadier.”

My mind reeled. This was happening much faster than I had anticipated.   
It was everything I wanted – trading this ridiculous little enclave of the Tarasovs for a place at the Continental, taking jobs on my own time and by my own choice – and it was all landing right in my lap.  
Except…

“That can’t have gone down well with Daniil.”  
Elena looked down and there was a long pause before she replied. “I think you have just made a very powerful enemy.”  
“And for you – how is this going to play out?”  
She swallowed. “I think…” Her voice broke. “I think the angrier he gets with you, the worse he will be with me.” 

The protective side of me warred for control.   
“We have to get you out of here, Elena.”  
She smiled weakly and took my hand.  
“Jardani, you know you can’t do that. You’re so close to everything you’ve ever wanted.”  
I couldn’t deny that, but I was unbelievably torn.

“JA chaču dapamahčy vam,” I whispered, grasping her hand tightly and leaning in so our foreheads touched.  
Elena let her eyes fall shut. “Dziakuj, Jardani.”  
“Kali laska, Elena.”

“But it’s alright,” she said, dropping my hand and pushing back to sit upright again. “I can look after myself.”  
I wanted to believe her, but I knew how dangerous a fearful, arrogant man could be.  
“Maybe there is one thing you can do for me though…”  
She looked deep into my eyes, clearly deliberating.  
“Can I trust you, Jardani?”  
I had to give her an honest answer.  
“Only you can decide that, Elena.”

She nodded, rising to her feet and disappearing into the bathroom for a few minutes. I heard a small scrape of tiles and then she was back, a small jewellery box in hand.  
“These were my mother’s.”  
I opened the box and to find a pair of diamond earrings.   
“They don’t look like much, but they are a family heirloom. I was never allowed to speak of them to anyone so I suspect they are worth quite a lot.”  
  
I looked up at Elena, a little confused.  
“I want you to pawn them for me. I can’t pawn anything Daniil has given me. He inscribes all his gifts so no one in the city would dare to touch them.”  
I sighed heavily. Of course he did.  
“But these should be worth enough to buy me some time. I can figure the rest out later.”

That sounded like a disaster waiting to happen.  
“But… where will you go?”  
Elena shook her head grimly. “I don’t know yet. But when shit goes down here, I want to be ready.”  
“Daniil will come looking for you, Elena. You know that.”  
She swallowed. “Yes. But perhaps being undocumented will actually help me disappear.”

I sighed heavily. She was brave, but there was no chance she could get out of New York City alone. I was determined to find a way to help her.  
“Of course I will get you the money, Elena. And I will help you plan your escape. Just let me know when you’re ready.”  
“Thank you,” Elena said quietly.

“He’ll never stop looking for you though.”  
“I know.”  
I pulled her in close again, and she let me hold her for a long time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this one ready to go for a while, but then COVID-19 happened and everything turned upside down for a while. I hope you are all doing ok out there! 
> 
> Will try to get the next chapter out a bit quicker. Thanks to any and all for reading. :)


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